


did the sky open up? (did every season meet?)

by nausicaa_of_phaeacia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feels, Post-Episode s04e05 Lockup, Season/Series 04, i don't know what this is, it's rated higher than T god help me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:32:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8400046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/pseuds/nausicaa_of_phaeacia
Summary: Coulson extracts Daisy from a fight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's five am. I've managed to write a non-Gen fic. Don't ask. I don't know what I'm doing.  
> Hope you like it, though :)

If Daisy hadn’t almost gotten herself killed, there would be a comic element to this: Coulson coming to extract her – in Lola. She is surrounded by Watchdogs, again, after going dark, basically leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. staggering around coordinates, tapping for the light switch. 

After a long, dead-silent while where he’s just steering, flying them to a safehouse, he somewhat shyly informs her that the team he sent for to have them pick up the garbage humans she was after.  
“I was fine,” she grits through her teeth, her arms still tightly crossed. Not that he minds that, but it can’t be doing her microfractures any good, gauntlets or no gauntlets.  
“Not doubting your skills.”  
“Just my judgement, then. Awesome.”  
It takes him a beat to reply. “Your health.”  
She sighs (angrily, if that’s a thing), because there’s nothing to reply to that, really.

When they arrive, Daisy makes sure to say good-night soon, picks up the bag he brought for her and goes for the stairs. Right before she arrives at the top, he says her name, carefully, like that could physically hurt her in some way. She turns around, trying not to soften her expression.  
He tries to make it light, but his voice is not quite as convincingly solid as he’d hoped. “Don’t leave, okay? You’d be missing out on my breakfast crêpes.”  
She almost smiles, but only manages a brief nod. “Thanks, Coulson. Goodnight.”

He wakes up far too early after having fallen asleep on the couch far too late. It’s not even really dawn yet, the birds have only just started chirping. He activates the drip filter coffee machine, opens the curtains. After a little while, he hears Daisy’s footsteps above him, artificially light, like she’s scared to wake him. Then, there’s a skylight creaking, and he freezes, desperately listening for further sounds that might tell him why she’s opened a window. 

He’s undoubtedly been an agent for too long, because he can tell a wide range of sounds one could make while climbing on a roof apart. As soon as he hears the gutter, he bolts for the stairs, almost stumbles because he’s taking two steps at once. Within seconds, he’s at the window, steps onto the chair she used to climb out through the skylight. A few seconds of panic, then he spots her, sitting on a small projection in the corner, dangling her feet over the edge.

Of course she’s heard him; he expects her to be annoyed with him, and rightfully so, but she just seems ... moved, maybe? She doesn’t say a word but invites him to sit next to her with a swift movement of her head. She still looks gloomy, but he’s grateful that she doesn’t seem to be angry with him. Without the eyeshadow, she just looks exhausted.

“You’re not angry with me,” he says.  
“No – why would I be?”  
“Extracted you from a fight without informing you. Brought you to a renovated farm house in the middle of nowhere. Ran after you as soon as I heard you were on the roof.”  
She looks away, and he carefully sits down next to her, lining up his feet with hers.  
“It’s fine.”  
He needs to ask. “Why?”  
Her eyes are piercing. “I haven’t exactly been earning girl scout badges, Coulson. If anything, _you_ should be angry.”  
“I have no right to be angry.”  
“Still.”  
“Also, I’m not.”

She shrugs, and his heart breaks for her.  
“You had every right to leave.”  
“Sure.”  
He sighs, but it makes her tense up even more, and he instantly regrets it.  
He repeats it, much more carefully this time. “You had every right to leave.”  
His words obviously anger her, and it’s painful how hard she’s trying to control herself; it’s a sterile, measured answer.  
“That’s not what I’ve been told. Trust me, I’ve disappointed pretty much everyone I could.”  
“That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”  
“You sound like a teacher right now.”

That hits close to home, and he looks at his bare feet, dangling from the roof next to Daisy’s.  
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”  
“No, I’m sorry, it sounded like I knew what it was like for you. I don’t.”  
She doesn’t look at him, but a moment later, she lightly rests her head against his shoulder. He freezes a little.  
“Is this okay?” She suddenly sounds very small, and it makes him sad.  
“Of course.”

They look at the treetops surrounding the house, bending in the morning breeze. The sky has gotten much lighter already, and you can tell where East is, but it’s too cloudy to make out the sun.  
Her head moves a little, and he turns to look at her, but her face is not really in his field of view.  
“I’m not crying. I’m cold.”  
He swallows, plays it light. “Just checking.”

After a while, she lifts her head, looks at him. Her eyes are a little red, but that might just as well be lack of sleep.  
“Crêpes?”  
It makes him smile.  
“Yeah, come on.”

The coffee’s gotten cold, but there’s a microwave. From somewhere deep inside a cupboard, Coulson produces a crêpes pan.  
“I’ve always been fascinated by how they make these,” she says, leaning against the counter. He smiles.  
“It’s pretty cool.”  
He finishes the dough, folding up each crêpe in very smooth movements as he’s waiting for the next to be done, filling them with cinnamon and sugar.  
When they’re done, Daisy immediately goes to wash the dishes. There’s a very determined look on her face, so he goes on to do the drying up.  
Having finished, she dries her hand with a small checkered kitchen towel, then carefully hangs it over the handle of the oven so it won’t get wrinkled.  
“Thanks, Phil.”  
“Anytime. Learned to make them at the Academy.”  
“No, I mean – thank you.”

He doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so his voice is quivering a little as he speaks.  
“You shouldn’t thank me. You deserve this, Daisy.”  
That seems to cause her pain. She looks so helpless; for the first time since he’s seen her again, she looks lost.  
He steps closer just the tiniest bit. “You’ve been through a lot. And you needed space.”  
It makes her look him in the eye. She’s suffering. “It wasn’t about the space.” A sigh. “Not _because_ of the space.”

And then, it dawns on him (he has suspected this, but now, it really, really dawns on him). “You were protecting us.”  
She doesn’t move.  
“Like you did when you ICEd yourself.”  
And this, this is what finally makes her cry, and she just stands there, shoulders limp, hands open, shaking. It barely takes him a moment to close the distance between them, wrap his arms around her: carefully, giving her the option of extracting herself anytime. At first, she doesn’t hug him back, but suddenly, she’s pulling him closer, hugging him tighter that she recollects having hugged anybody, really.

He’s so scared to move – to do anything, really, so he just stands there, holding her close; she’s desperately holding on to him. She’s still trembling, so he carefully rests his palm against her neck. He’s desperate for words; everything he could possibly say at this point seems wrong. Gradually, her body relaxes, but she doesn’t loosen her arms. He’s not really aware of it, but his fingers are caressing the back of her head, playing with her hair.  
It still feels like he should say something, and while he could slap himself for saying it, he goes with “I’m glad you’re hugging me”. He tenses up immediately, because that seems like such an unfiltered, unreflected thing to say.

When she withdraws a little from their hug, her palm is on his cheek; they stay like that, frozen, for such a long while that Coulson can’t but take her hand against his face _seriously_. At first, he just looks scared, mirroring her, but since she doesn’t move, he starts smiling, and this moment where she seems to realize something – it’s more beautiful than anything he’s ever known. 

Her arms are pulling him back in, and she’s kissing him like it’s a matter of life and death, her hands not knowing what they’re searching for but caressing his body wherever she can reach him through their embrace. They’re not thinking about it, but after a frantic removal of clothing obstacles, she pulls him flush against and into her, letting him push her onto the counter, making the steel dish rack rattle against the sink with every thrust. Her hands are in his hair, his lips pulling at her skin, leaving small marks along her collarbone. 

When things get even faster, when she’s trying not to scratch his shoulders, she holds on to the tap as he keeps pushing into her and her breathing quickens. As she’s holding her breath, he sends her over the edge with one final thrust, making her press herself against him, then collapse into his arms, still pulling him against her. He’s shivering, and she’s suddenly incredibly aware of how his heaving chest is perfectly mirroring hers, hides her face by kissing his neck very slowly, very carefully.  
Hesitatingly, she pulls away, and when he looks at her, it feels like something might have shifted: minimally, yes, but undeniably.  
He’s smiling like he must have when he was a child, and it’s infectious.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading :) Tell me what you think!
> 
> Title's from Timber Timbre's _Under Your Spell_.


End file.
